Roads
by Drown Me In Blue
Summary: Grimmjow and Ichigo separated a long time ago. Now, though, a decade of misunderstandings is about to meet a force unlike any other: six teenagers who just want to get their parents back together. Not mpreg.


**Pairing: **_Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Ichigo Kurosaki_

**Music:** You Were Meant For Me_, by Jewel_

**Word count:** ~ 10,500

**Rating:** M

**A/N: **Think _Parent Trap _for this one. I'm sorry?

* * *

_**Prompt 34: **__Roads_

* * *

"Camp," Shuuhei repeated flatly. "You are sending us to a camp."

His father—adoptive father, really, but they all loved him more than enough to make up for a small accident of blood—gave him a mild look from the other side of the kitchen, as he packed a lunch for each of them. It was something of a ritual, which he did every morning regardless of their protests that his time was better spent elsewhere or his editor's tears for his approaching deadlines. And there were a lot of those, seeing as his new book was to go to the presses in a few months.

Then again, Shuuhei thought with exasperation, Keigo Asano was far too prone to dramatics.

"Yes. Camp," Ichigo affirmed, mouth quirking up in what most people would have called a half-frown, but which Shuuhei knew was actually a half-smile. "Don't worry about it, Shu. It will be fun. You'll get to meet other people your age, interact with people who have the same interests, get away from home for a month—I would have _killed_ to get away from my father for a month, at your age." He closed the last bento box, rinsed his hands, and then dried them. When he looked back up, his smile had faltered slightly. "I suppose that if you don't want to go, I can…" He trailed off, looking troubled.

Shuuhei manfully resisted the urge to turn and smack his head against the doorframe a few times. If _anyone_ else hand called him Shu, they would have suffered a painful death. Had _anyone_ else attempted to pout at him—even though he knew Ichigo would deny that his expression resembled such until his dying day—he would have scoffed at them. Had anyone else suggested that getting away from home would be good for him (and Ichigo's point about Grandpa Isshin didn't apply to them, because the man was _insane_ and Ichigo quite obviously wasn't), he would have smacked whoever said it. But Ichigo…

All three of the Kurosaki children, despite being adopted, would have quite happily offered up their own severed limbs, had their father ever asked for them.

Not that he ever would, but the sentiment remained.

So, instead of informing his father just how utterly awful an idea it would be to send him, Rangiku, and Rukia to a summer camp—_together_, where they would have access to all those other poor, defenseless children—he simply took a seat at the breakfast bar, forced out one of the bright smiles that seemed to make his father's week, and managed not to sound like he was lying through his teeth when he gritted out, "Oh, yes. _Fun_."

Ichigo's warm brown eyes lit up, and his own smile changed from half-there to full-on grin. He looked equal parts pleased and astonished, and Shuuhei had to swallow against the guilt that suddenly twisted his guts into a knot. That expression was _just not fair_.

Of course, Ichigo himself wasn't fair, either. He was a father who defied convention. By all rights, raising three teenagers who weren't exactly model students and balancing a high-profile writing career should have left him harried and half-bald, or a quiet alcoholic locked in his room, but he wasn't. He handled everything life threw at him with the mentality of a Marine—face it, find its weakness, get over it, and move on. Even when their lives resembled nothing so much as a war zone with reporters on one side, parent-teacher conferences on the other, sports events closing in from behind, and deadlines looming on the horizon, Ichigo faced it with a solid confidence matched only by his lightning-quick temper—never directed at his children, but devastating to all who stood in his way. He was incredible.

Shuuhei also had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn't entirely human, but he kept that to himself. It certainly fit with his ability to invoke crushing amounts of guilt—for everything and anything—with an innocent smile.

Thankfully, Rukia wandered in at that moment, just in time to save him from blurting out every wrong he had done in the past week, and plopped down next to him, still yawning. "Morning, Dad," she chimed cheerfully.

Ichigo's expression softened, and he came around the bar to press a quick kiss to the top of her head. "Morning, Rukia," he returned, dropping a plate of eggs in front of each of them. "Eat up. Finals today. You need to feed your brains." With a glance at the doorway, he frowned. "Speaking of which…" He headed for the hall and the last occupied bedroom, still frowning.

"Speaking of brains, or the lack of them?" Rukia muttered once he was out of hearing, picking morosely at her food. Her usual poised cheer had vanished with the realization that they wouldn't get to spend their summer with their father, as they had all been planning—and, secretly, looking forward to, not that any of them would ever admit it. They were still teenagers, after all.

Shuuhei traded glances with her, and knew instantly that she had overheard their father's plan. He grimaced faintly, more of an expression of distaste for their father's arrangement than he would ever show to someone outside his family. "If we don't do this—" he began.

Rukia released a disgusted sigh and slumped down in her chair. "—He'll be _disappointed_ that we didn't like the idea," she finished unhappily. "And there's nothing in the world worse than when Dad is unhappy. He's worn out most of the time as it is."

Another exchange of glances meant they were in complete accord. Ichigo Kurosaki might have been one of the best realistic fiction authors of the decade, but he was always just a little bit distant, a little bit sad, and he had been for as long as Rangiku and Rukia could remember. Shuuhei, who was older, could recall a time when their father laughed, and smiled freely, and didn't have a care—a time when he had a blue-haired man with him, who made him do those things—but that had been a long time ago. Now, while Ichigo loved them and gave them everything they had ever wanted in a family, it wasn't everything _he_ needed, and that made all three of them just the littlest bit furious at whoever it was that had left him.

Shuuhei thought, to himself at least, that if he ever met the bastard, he would sucker punch him in the nuts so hard he would never have to worry about walking again.

He was also rather sure that Rukia and Rangiku both had similar ideas.

Ichigo Kurosaki was their father, no matter what blood had to say, and he was… Shuuhei struggled to come up with an adjective that could encompass the man. Strong, firm, kind, temperamental, patient, caring, cautious, encouraging, loving—just…everything one could want in a paternal (or maternal, really, since he played both roles for them) figure, who had chosen to take the three of _them_ into his house and his heart.

Luck had nothing to do with it. Shuuhei, though he usually dismissed such tripe, knew that it had been _fate_.

He and Rukia exchanged glances again, this time with the resigned message, "_It's only one month, what's the worst that could happen?_" clear between them as they went back to their eggs.

"After we get back, we'll still have two whole months, right?" Rukia said a little desperately. "Two months to spend just with Dad. And it's _just one month_. We'll be fine. Nothing will happen."

"To him or to us?" Shuuhei asked bleakly. "You know how he gets when he's alone. We have to ask Aunt Yuzu and Aunt Karin to keep an eye on him."

"_Not_ Grandpa Isshin," Rukia agreed quickly. She got up to pour them both orange juice, her expression suited far more for a condemned prisoner being led to the executioner than a sixteen-year-old being sent to an all-inclusive summer camp. After a moment's hesitation, she dumped another portion of eggs on a third plate and got another glass of juice, and set both in front of the unoccupied seat. When she caught Shuuhei's silently disbelieving stare, she just rolled her eyes.

"Oh, like Rangiku'll get it herself at seven in the morning," she scoffed, reclaiming her seat and her food. "Besides, whatever Papa doesn't have to do himself is one step closer to him actually going to bed before he falls down."

Silently, Shuuhei agreed. It was obvious Ichigo had gone on another all-night writing spree, as he often did before a deadline. The bags under his eyes quite clearly didn't thank him for it.

Even as Rukia subsided, muttering something about sleeping pills and forced sedation into her plate, Ichigo reappeared in the kitchen, towing along with him a yawning, stumbling blob topped by a wild mess of strawberry-blond hair. Shuuhei just barely refrained from rolling his eyes as the final member of their household was firmly guided into the free chair and presented with a fork. Rangiku had just enough mental faculties to take it and begin a steady plate-to-mouth motion, her eyes glazed to the point where she looked drugged. Ichigo simply rolled his own eyes and headed for the sink to begin washing up.

For Rangiku, "not a morning person" didn't even _begin_ to cover it.

Shuuhei stared at his adopted sister for a long moment, thanking whatever kind deity was watching over him that they had no genetic material in common. While he was thankful that Rangiku trusted them enough not to put up barriers in the morning, as she had once done—and as she had _always_ done with the other families she had been placed with—Rangiku could still make a vampire with a face-full of sunlight seem like the best kind of early riser, and Shuuhei wanted no part of that.

Judging from the expression on Rukia's face, she felt the same.

Rangiku wavered in her seat, and then collapsed facedown on the counter, missing her plate by a quarter of an inch. They traded another set of looks, and winced slightly.

Complete agreement.

"Up," Ichigo said sternly, though there was a smirk hovering somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth. He dragged Rangiku back upright and shoved her book bag into her hands, then steered all three of them for the door. "Shu, Rukia, do you have everything you need?"

"Yes, Dad." Rukia shouldered her bag and leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss Ichigo's cheek, then ducked around him, grabbed Rangiku, and headed for the street, waving as they went. "Go to bed and sleep! We'll be home as soon as we can!"

Ichigo watched them go with amusement, then turned to Shuuhei with a smile, pressing his bag into his hands. "You'll keep her from killing Ran? I don't want to get called in on the last day of school, the way I have every other year, understood?"

His words were stern, but there was still a smile lurking underneath the raised eyebrow, and Shuuhei couldn't help but smile back, leaning over to give his father a quick hug. "I'll try, Dad, but I can't promise anything. Go sleep, and we'll be home before you know it."

Ichigo chuckled and mussed his already wild hair, as though Shuuhei were still three years old and desperate for the attention of this amazing man who had taken him out of the orphanage. Well, that was halfway right, anyway. Fourteen years later, and he'd never wanted anything as much as he wanted to make his father happy and proud. He leaned into the touch, and when Ichigo drew back, shaking his head and muttering, "You're as bad as your sister," Shuuhei couldn't help but hug him again.

"We'll all go," he said in a rush as he stepped away, knowing the bus was coming but wanting to make certain that Ichigo knew that they would do _anything_ for him. "The camp—we'll go. A change of scenery, right?" He didn't wait for Ichigo's answer, but turned and ducked away, heading for his waiting siblings at a run.

"You told him?" Rukia asked as he reached them, just in time to see the bus approaching. No clarification was needed. On the matter of their father, at least, all three of them were on the same page.

"Yeah," Shuuhei said grimly, hoping he hadn't just signed them all lifetime house arrest warrants with his words to Ichigo—because of _course_ something would go wrong at the camp, and of _course_ they would get blamed for it (though to be fair, it usually _was_ their fault). But…

But it would make him happy, to know they were off "enjoying" themselves at camp, and that right there was worth a hell of a lot of suffering.

"Hm?" Rangiku mumbled blearily, squinting at them with half-open eyes. "Whuzzat?"

Rukia rolled her eyes—it was eerie, really, that Shuuhei couldn't tell if she had picked up the expression from Ichigo or if Ichigo had gotten it from her—and patted her soothingly on the arm. "Don't worry," she said calmingly, steering her sister onto the bus. "We'll explain it all later, I promise."

With a snort, Shuuhei followed them on, casting a quick glance back at their father. Ichigo was still standing in the doorway, watching them with an expression Shuuhei couldn't quite read. As they found their seats and the bus pulled away, Shuuhei crossed his fingers and hoped that this was all for the best.

Somehow, he had a feeling that this was all going to go horribly, horribly wrong.

* * *

Ichigo watched the bus pull away with a heart that was simultaneously sinking towards his ankles and as light as eiderdown. They were all good kids—the best—and he loved them more than he had ever thought it possible to love anyone except—

_Him_.

With a sigh, Ichigo turned and shut the door, heading for his study. It was about the only place in the house where he could keep anything private, since it was forbidden to the kids on pain of being strung up in the attic by their ankles. It was where he did his writing, but it was also where he kept the few family pictures that were too painful to keep out, or raised too many questions. One such photo sat right next to his desk, visible whenever he turned his head. Carefully, he lifted the picture frame from its place by the window and let his gaze trace over the familiar lines.

Grimmjow grinned up at him, showing a rather shark-like amount of teeth, with Ichigo tucked under his arm and close against his side. Between them, they held Shuuhei, the first child they had adopted, who looked like a smaller, slightly more solemn version of his teenaged self. He was sucking his thumb, staring gravely at the photographer—Karin, perhaps, though Ichigo couldn't quite remember—and Ichigo smiled, running his fingertips lightly over the glass. They'd all been happy together, starting a new life with new responsibility. At that point, he and Grimmjow had been together for almost six years, married in all but law, and neither of them could have suspected, in a thousand years, that what they had would come to an end.

Ichigo had loved Grimmjow almost from first sight—_almost_ because the first time they had met, they had gotten into a knockdown, drag-out fight and nearly killed each other. The next day, Grimmjow had asked him out, and for nine long years, they had been each other's worlds.

And then it had ended. Looking back on it now, he knew they had both overreacted. They had been young and even more stupid then was usual. But they had taken separate roads, leaving Ichigo with two small children and no idea where Grimmjow was, or where Grimmjow had taken their other two children.

They were both equally guilty in the breakup, but Ichigo didn't know if he could ever forgive Grimmjow for the latter.

And the bastard hadn't left so much as a note.

* * *

"Camp," Ulquiorra repeated blankly. "You are sending us to a camp."

His father—adoptive father, really, but they all loved him in a way that probably stemmed from a full-on case of Stockholm Syndrome—shot him an annoyed look from where he was bent over his computer, the sleeves of his last good dress shirt pushed up to his elbows and wrinkled beyond saving.

Ulquiorra wearily added laundry to his ever-growing list of things that needed doing.

"You deaf?" Grimmjow growled. "_Yes_, camp. I've got work to do, and you brats are going to be underfoot all summer. Might as well send you somewhere you'll actually get out of my hair. And you're burning breakfast."

Ulquiorra manfully resisted the urge to turn and smack his head against the closest cabinet a few times. After eleven years with Grimmjow, he could translate bastard-speak to something more universally understandable. Through that filter, what he had just said came out sounding somewhat like "You need to get away for the summer, I want you to be happy and have fun, and so I'm sending you to camp. You're burning breakfast."

It was rather horrifying, really.

And the pancakes were still burning.

Ulquiorra turned the heat off and transferred the last batch to plates, still wondering how they could possibly get out of this. A glance towards the kitchen table across the room showed that he had a partner in crime, as Nel's usual bubbling cheer had been banished by those words. And while he usually scoffed and his sister's disgusting amount of cheerfulness—because he was her brother, and he _had_ to—he didn't think the look on her face boded well for that brightness coming back any time soon. There were plots whirling behind those wide, innocent grey eyes that she turned ever-so-sweetly on their father.

"We have to go, Daddy? Don't we have a say in this?" she asked, her face taking on the miserable-puppy expression that could usually twist their father into knots around her little finger.

This time, however, Grimmjow just shot her a Look and raised one eyebrow. "You thought this was a democracy? Hell, no. Try thinking of it more as 'benevolent dictatorship.' Eat, then get your asses to school. And if you get me called in again on the last day, I swear, you'll be digging me a pool all summer. With a _teaspoon_."

"Yes, sir," Nel muttered, subsiding into mutters as she shoveled pancakes into her mouth. Ulquiorra joined her, the two of them trading looks of shared misery. Grimmjow rolled his eyes at them, slamming his laptop closed.

"Don't think I didn't see that," he warned, then stalked for the last occupied bedroom down the hall.

As soon as he was out of hearing range, Nel looked at Ulquiorra a little desperately. "Is there _any_ way we can get out of this? Any at all? I'll dig the pool myself as long as we don't have to go."

As much as it pained him to admit it, Ulquiorra really had no idea. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and frowned at the ceiling as though it held all the answers he was looking for as he considered possibilities. At length, he shook his head and said flatly, "It is out of the question. If we don't, Father will—"

"—Be impossible," she finished with a sigh, tugging on a lock of sea-green hair. Her expression was one hair shy of disgusted. "He can guilt trip like _no one_ else, god, the bastard. So…what? We just suck it up and deal? Nothing's going to happen, right?"

"To him or to us?" Ulquiorra asked darkly. "You know how he gets when he's alone. We have to ask Uncle Shiro and Uncle Nnoitra to keep an eye on him."

Their uncles were both utterly insane, without a doubt, but they could be trusted to deal with Grimmjow when his kids were gone. Even though Grimmjow was usually a hard-assed, crude, take-no-prisoners, I'm-top-of-the-food-chain-and-you're-all-lunch kind of person, he sometimes got into _moods_. While he was never exactly morose, he got about as near as a bastard ever could, going quiet for hours at a time. One of the kids would usually find him sitting in the window seat that looked out on the forest behind their house, a sketchpad on his lap and a distant, almost melancholy look on his face.

They tended to tread carefully when that happened, unsure of what would set him off—or _whether_ anything would set him off. Grimmjow normally was a somewhat affable panther that could either eat you or start purring at any given time. Grimmjow sad…

It was just…_odd_.

"_Not_ Uncle Szayel," Nel agreed quickly, unaware of his thoughts. She got up to pour them both glasses of apple juice, her expression suited far more to a walk towards the gallows than a seventeen-year-old being sent to an exclusive summer camp. After a momentary pause, she took the extra plate of pancakes, another glass of juice, and set both in front of the unoccupied seat. When she caught Ulquiorra's silent stare, she just rolled her eyes.

"Oh, like Starrk is capable of anything that requires fine motor control at seven in the morning," she muttered, reclaiming her seat and her food. "Besides, if Daddy doesn't have to do it himself, he might actually go to bed before he passes out standing up. Again."

Silently, Ulquiorra agreed. It was obvious Grimmjow had gone on another all-night drafting bender, as he usually did when he got a new project. The bags under his eyes were big enough to hide a baby in.

Even as Nel subsided, muttering something about medication and insomniacs into her plate, Grimmjow reentered the kitchen, dragging along with him a yawning, stumbling blob sporting a bird's-nest of wavy brown hair. Ulquiorra just barely refrained from rolling his eyes as the final member of their dysfunctional family was firmly deposited in the empty chair and presented with a fork. Starrk had just enough mental faculties to take it and begin a steady plate-to-gullet motion, his eyes glazed to the point where he looked brain-dead.

Ulquiorra looked at him, then at Nel, and they both quickly turned away. _No relation_, Ulquiorra repeated to himself. _He's no relation. No DNA in common. None. _

Nel seemed to be giving herself a similar pep talk, judging by the look on her face.

Grimmjow looked them over, snorted, and picked up his laptop. "School," he repeated threateningly. "You get there on time. Understood?" He seemed to take their mumbles as affirmation, because he turned at stalked into his drafting room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Ulquiorra stared at the door for a long moment, then steeled himself and headed for the sink to clean up, ignoring the twisting, sinking feeling in his gut.

Somehow, he had a feeling that this was all going to go horribly, horribly wrong.

* * *

Grimmjow sighed and ran one hand through his hair, tugging on the blue strands in self-disgust. "Bastard," he muttered, glaring at the photo placed so carefully in his line of sight, so he could see it every time he glanced up from his drafting table or his computer, no matter where in the room he was. As it always did, his heart twinged, but he clamped down on it and gritted his teeth. It was even worse knowing that soon his kids would be in the very place he and the cause of that retarded fluttering had first met as camp councilors. Where they had first gotten into a fight. Where they had first kissed. Where everything had changed, irrevocably and forever.

"Over. We're over. Long over," he informed Ichigo's smiling face, the chocolate-brown eyes all but glowing with contentment and happiness as he gazed at the camera. He was holding a sleeping Nel cradled in his arms and looking several dozen kinds of beautiful as he laughed at Grimmjow, who held the camera. They had just moved into their new house—the one Grimmjow had left when he walked away with both Nel and Starrk. And Grimmjow admitted—to himself, if no one else, ever—that that had probably been the death blow for their relationship. Ichigo would have forgiven anything but that.

It wasn't like they hadn't discussed it, what would happen if they had to separate. They'd even decided who would keep each of the children. Grimmjow had connected more with Nel and Starrk, as Ichigo had with Shuuhei and Rukia, so it was logical. And Ichigo had to have known that Grimmjow wouldn't just walk away and leave him alone with four toddlers. Grimmjow had loved the little brats, anyway. He was their father—one of their fathers—and he could no more have cut himself off from them completely than he could have cut out his own heart. As much as he liked to play the heartless bastard, he was their _father_. He loved them more than he ever had anyone but Ichigo. But he and Ichigo had fallen apart, completely and utterly, and Grimmjow hadn't been able to stand the thought of losing every good thing in his life all at once.

So he had taken Nel and Starrk, and left, and Ichigo hadn't come after him.

Even though Grimmjow had swallowed his pride and left a letter for him.

He hadn't come after him.

He'd ignored Grimmjow's letter completely.

* * *

"It's official. Camp sucks." Rangiku collapsed back onto her sleeping bag, face set in mulish lines as she pouted up at the ceiling of their little cabin in the middle of the mountains somewhere. This was _not_ what they had signed up for. Then again, they had probably gone a bit overboard putting permanent blue dye in the councilors' soap. It had gotten them banished to the Isolation Cabin where they couldn't—supposedly—cause any more trouble.

_Hah_, Shuuhei thought wearily. They _really_ didn't know his family, if they thought that a little thing like a few miles of distance would keep then from wrecking havoc.

He cast a quick glance at the other three campers, who seemed to be in a huddle on the far side of the cabin. They'd been sent here for some similar reason, and Shuuhei had crossed paths with them in camp enough to know that they were likeable and eerily similar to his own family, but Shuuhei wasn't planning on having any heart-to-hearts with them any time soon. He had enough on his plate just keeping his own sisters in line.

"Oh, yeah," Rukia agreed, dropping down on one of the dusty bunks without her usual poise and reminding him that he was in the middle of damage control. There was the beginning of a scowl on her face, one Shuuhei knew boded ill for whatever poor bastard had banished them here.

Quickly, before she could start talking about hacking bank accounts or something equally illegal—and secretly appealing—Shuuhei stepped in, raising his hands to ward off the suggestions that were sure to come. "Okay, come on. We lasted three weeks, pretty much. Nine more days and we'll be back with Dad. Let's not do anything before that to get ourselves grounded until our midlife crises, 'kay?"

Rukia gave him a look that said she was Not Impressed, but she let the subject drop without any more prompting. Instead, she glanced over at the other detainees and asked, "They said those guys were being sent here for setting the mess tent on fire, right?"

Rangiku looked up quickly, a familiar gleam growing in her eye.

"No," Shuuhei said hurriedly, cutting that idea off at the root. "Remember. Dad. Camp report. Grounded until old age. Can't we just…lie low for a bit?" He was perilously close to begging, but he _really_ didn't want to face Ichigo's Disappointed Face ™ when they got back. If he heard about what had happened…Well, he usually accepted the "they had it coming, we did it for a reason" kinds of excuses they came up with, but since he had been the one to push them to go to camp in the beginning, he would blame himself for them being unhappy enough for trying to get sent home early. And _anything_ was better than that.

Rangiku and Rukia both seemed to read those thoughts on his face—or they had similar ones, because they deflated with twin sighs. "Lie low," Rangiku repeated glumly, still pouting. She crossed her arms under her breasts. "Right. Why did we come here again?"

"Because Dad has fond memories of this place," Rukia said, sighing again, this time in resignation. She noticed that both of them were staring at her and rolled her eyes. "What? Just because you're both too timid and cowardly to ask anyone for reasons doesn't mean I have to go along with it. I asked him about it before he left. He said something about having met someone when he was here as a councilor." The look she gave the two of them made it clear which "someone" she was talking about.

"That blue-haired bastard?" Shuuhei demanded incredulously. "The one who—"

"Hey!"

Startled, all three of them looked over at the green-haired girl who had gotten to her feet, and was glaring at them as though they had just offended her. She'd obviously been listening in—not that she could help it, really, with the size of the cabin.

"Yeah?" Rangiku asked, baffled. "Something wrong?"

She narrowed grey-brown eyes at them in obvious warning. "_Don't_ talk about my dad that way, bastards," she growled.

Shuuhei felt his eyebrows make a break for his hairline. "We weren't," he said, looking the three of them over. They still seemed weirdly similar to his own family, right down to the pushy sister and the narcoleptic in the corner.

And the green hair… There was something there that he couldn't quite…

"You were!" she insisted sharply. "Daddy has blue hair, and he sent us here because he used to be a councilor here!"

Silence.

Rangiku and Rukia traded glance, the same thought clear on their face. How many people could have blue hair _and_ be councilors at the same camp?

"About…twenty years ago?" Shuuhei ventured almost hesitantly.

The girl's eyes widened, and she stepped back. As she did, her hair shifted slightly, revealing the large, pale pink scar that ran from her forehead to her nose. Shuuhei's breath caught so fast he almost choked.

He remembered that scar.

"_Nel_?" he demanded incredulously.

She froze mid-step, eyes going impossibly wide, and stared at him, eyes running over the three scars on his cheek, a leftover from his original family, the same way hers was. Then her gaze drifted over to fix on his wide eyes, also grey, and recognition sparked, dim and vague but still undeniably _there_.

"Shu?" she whispered in shock. "But…how? What—?"

Rukia got it with a gasp and leapt to her feet, pointing straight at the brown-haired boy. "You—you're Starrk! You're _his_ kids!"

Rangiku traded baffled glances with the green-eyed boy across the room, and shrugged in confusion. The other boy simply shook his head, signaling that he didn't have any clue what was going on, either.

Starrk just blinked for a moment before he made the connection, and his eyes widened, too. "Rukia. That means…"

"Grimmjow," Rangiku said, finally getting it. When they all looked at her, she shrugged slightly. "Dad keeps a framed sketch of the house on the wall. He said someone he loved designed it. That was the name it was signed with. And I found that picture he has, when I was looking for Christmas presents in his office. I just assumed…"

"That's Daddy," Nel murmured, still looking shocked. "He talks about…Dad, sometimes, when he's really upset. And about you and Rukia. And he has all of Dad's books." She stared at Shuuhei, and then took a half step forward, almost wary. Shuuhei had no such reservations. He reached out and dragged her into a tight hug.

"Eleven years," he said, equal parts quietly seething and achingly happy, wrapping his arms around her. "They kept us apart for eleven years. Damn it."

She hugged him back, hard enough to bruise and exactly the way he remembered from the three years they'd had growing up together. "Oh, Shu. I could barely remember it—just that we used to build sand castles on the beach, and Daddy would help us 'cause he was an architect and Dad would make up stories about what the people did and—"

"Nel." Ulquiorra stood up, sounding slightly annoyed. "What's going on?"

"I'm with him," Rangiku agreed quickly, joining him. She was pouting again. "What are you talking about?"

Rukia rolled her eyes, dropping down next to Starrk and reaching out to touch his hand. "Come on, Ran. You're not that slow. They're the ones Dad never talks about. The other half of the family. Nel and Shuuhei were adopted at the same time, like me and Starrk, before Dad split from their dad, and they left." She smiled, and Starrk smiled back a little dazedly.

Rangiku and Ulquiorra traded looks. "I take it we were adopted afterwards?" she ventured.

Ulquiorra nodded slowly. "About a year after Father moved into the area we live in now," he affirmed.

Rangiku looked back at the rest of them, her expression troubled. Though she liked to play the flighty, flirty blond, she was just as quick to defend their father as Shuuhei and Rukia. Quicker sometimes—she'd been in a home until she was six, and didn't have fond memories of it. "That means…this is the reason Dad is unhappy so often?"

Nel blinked and drew back to stare at Shuuhei. "You mean…him, too? Daddy gets depressed, but I thought it was because Dad left him, and—"

Shuuhei raised both hands to stop all of them, and sank down to sit cross-legged on the floor. Nel copied him, and the other four moved in to sit in a circle with them. They were all silent for a moment as Shuuhei thought, head bowed as he put all of the pieces together. "But…Dad has the original house that they designed together. That means…Father left _him_, not the other way around. Father has all of Dad's books, and Dad still has Father's sketches, and his picture. Father talks about us to you guys. I _know_ Dad misses you a _lot_. And if they're both sad all the time, they _can't_ be over each other, right?" He looked up, and Rukia instinctively tensed at the look on his face. Shuuhei usually tried to be the mature, even-tempered one, but there was a trickster to put Loki to shame under the composed façade. And that expression boded a truly _magnificent_ plan in their near future.

It gave her shiver just thinking about it. Shuuhei's plans were _brilliant_.

"You want to meet Dad again, right?" he asked, glancing at the other three, then at his own siblings—though, Rukia supposed, they were all siblings, really. "Dad always says it was a misunderstanding that ruined the best thing in his life. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that's you guys and Father. What if we…just fix the misunderstanding?"

Nel's eyes went even wider, and a grin broke over her face. Starrk looked at her warily, and then glanced at Rukia, who looked back with thoughts spinning through her head too fast to grasp. They would do _anything_ to get rid of that lingering sadness their Dad always seemed to carry around with him, and this…this was their chance.

"You are insane," Ulquiorra said flatly. "There are so many ways this could backfire that I cannot count them all. As independent as we are, there is no way we can do this singlehandedly. We live on opposite sides of the country. We are _children_. This is a ridiculous idea."

Rangiku waved a hand, another pout making its way onto her face. This one was a mix of I-Can't-Believe-We're-Even-Talking-About-This and You're-Going-To-Get-Us-Killed-Or-Worse-Grounded. "I second that! You guys are as nuts as Grandpa Isshin if you think there is _any_ way this can work. If they wanted to get back together, wouldn't they have done it already? Why do we have to do this? I mean, I'm happy to have met you guys and all, but—"

"It will make him _happy_," Shuuhei and Nel said as one, then paused and blinked at each other.

Rukia rolled her eyes, and then turned a beseeching gaze on their two reluctant siblings. "Come on," she implored. "Don't you want to get to know Father?"

"And besides, it will be easy," Shuuhei put in, grinning wickedly. "We're all flying out of the same airport, right? There's only one, and the camp councilors can't go past security. So we just get our tickets, go through, and then trade. Nel, Starrk, and Ulquiorra will go to Dad, and Rukia, Rangiku, and I will go to Father. Dad is on a deadline, so we were planning on taking a taxi home. That's easy enough."

Nel nodded. "We were going to do the same, since Daddy will be at a consultation when we land. We'll just…switch it up. And if we can convince one of them to fly out to switch us back…" Her grin was equally wicked. "Well, they'll have to meet somehow, right?"

Rangiku and Ulquiorra traded looks, and Rangiku sighed, raising her hands in defeat. Ulquiorra bit back a groan and closed his eyes.

Just as he had thought. This was all going horribly, horribly wrong.

But…he was just a little bit curious, too. And they had nine days to iron out any kinks in the plan, which was far more than Nel's crazy schemes usually gave them.

Even as his mind started to summon up the words, "What's the worst that could happen?" he squashed it ruthlessly. There was no sense in tempting fate, not with all that things that could so obviously go wrong.

* * *

They had designed the house together, for their first year anniversary. Even then, they had known they were in for the long haul. Ichigo had never loved anyone the way he loved Grimmjow, and he had thought Grimmjow felt the same. So they had created the first sketch, and every year afterwards they had added to it, changed it, tweaked it to create a dream home where they could build the future they both dreamed of. Neither of them was an overly romantic sap, so they never said, "_When you're a famous architect, and I'm a prize-winning author, this is what we'll have_." But, as a dream, it was all the more powerful for being unspoken. And, when they _were_ successful, the construction of their dream house had been an unspoken agreement. So easy, so perfect, so very much _theirs_.

Grimmjow designed the outside, all bright glass and warm wood and sweeping arches, simultaneously grand and welcoming. Ichigo had designed the inside, filled it with homey colors and an easy blend of modern and classic that turned it from a house into a _home_. It had been a joint effort, and all the more cherished because of it.

And then Grimmjow had gone and left, and the home had transformed back into a house overnight, full of corners that were too foreboding and contrasts that were too sharp. If not for Shuuhei and Rukia, and later Rangiku, Ichigo was sure he would have grown to hate it with a passion. He already disliked it just a little bit, from their month-long absence. But they needed time away from him, time with others their age, interaction that they never seemed to want over the long, lazy summers spent around the pool in the back. Ichigo loved them with a protective fierceness that he had once thought reserved for his sisters alone, and they seemed to return the sentiment, but he didn't want them to become obsessed, the way he knew he could.

They were their own people, but they needed to realize that he was only human, and wouldn't be around forever.

"Fatalistic," he muttered, setting his teeth and pulling his gaze from the window overlooking the backyard. "It's not like them leaving for a month means they're going to all vanish the forever."

But the words were hollow, unable to convince himself. The one person he had trusted with _everything_ had walked out on him, and even though over a decade had passed since then, he still felt like he was standing on a narrow rope bridge that could throw him off at any moment. It was cliché, and stupid, and ridiculous, but he didn't trust anyone not to leave him, except for Shuuhei, Rukia, and Rangiku. They were his world now.

They were also due home today, and he didn't want to be moping when they got here. With a sigh, he turned his attention back to the final chapter of his next book, deciding to try and finish it before they got back, so that he could spend the next few weeks with them and not worry about work.

Several hours later, the sound of the front door opening pulled Ichigo out of his writing trance, and a soft female voice called, "Dad! We're home!"

Already halfway out the door, Ichigo froze. That hadn't been Rukia, or Rangiku, not unless their voices had changed a whole hell of a lot in the course of a single month. But why would a stranger waltz in and announce…?

He rounded the corner into the front hallway and felt his heart all but leave his chest.

"Nel," he whispered when he had regained his breath. He recognized her instantly, even though she had grown into such a beautiful young woman that it was almost painful. "You're…"

"Hi, Dad," she whispered, voice thick. She took one running step and threw herself into his arms with all the force of a small train, knocking him back into the wall even as he closed his arms around her, shock shorting out his brain.

Unable to do anything else, he slid down the wall to his knees, staring down at the top of her bowed head where it was tucked against his shoulder. Blankly, he looked back up, to where a teenager with a familiar mop of brown curls watched him almost warily. Ichigo sucked in a short breath, feeling like he had been punched, and managed a smile. "Starrk."

Without any more hesitation, Starrk was at his side, on his knees, hugging Ichigo just as hard as Nel. Ichigo buried his nose in the hair he and Grimmjow had laughed about—_movie star hair on a baby_, they'd said—and wondered at the faint wetness on his cheeks. On all of their faces, now that he took the time to notice it.

_God._

They were _back_.

_His children were back_.

There was a soft sound, like someone shuffling his or her feet, and Ichigo glanced back up in surprise, seeing the short, slender, dark-haired boy standing awkwardly on the doormat, his wide green eyes wary. He clutched his bag like a lifeline, and looked faintly uncertain, visible even beneath a mask that was doubtless meant to be indifferent.

There was no hesitation. Ichigo smiled at him and lifted an arm. An instant later, the boy was against him, hugging him as though he was about to disappear. Ichigo wrapped his arm around the son he hadn't known he had, pulling all three of them as close as possible and thanking whatever god had seen fit to give him this chance.

* * *

Briefcase in hand, Grimmjow stared at the three strangers who had invaded his house and begun calling themselves his children when they so obviously _weren't_.

Well.

Weren't his _current_ children, at least.

But they were _his_, and he knew it as much as he had ever known anything. He knew them instantly, remembered the clear blue-violet of Rukia's eyes, the scars on Shuuhei's cheek from his fucking bastard of a birth father, recognized the shoulders-squared-chin-up stance the redhead had adopted that made her look just like Ichigo.

_Ichigo_.

These were Ichigo's kids.

How was it possible for them to be so much like him without any blood between them? It was all the little things, the faint frown, the tilt of the head, the uncertain gnawing on a lip, the mulish clearness of their gazes.

_Just like Ichigo_, Grimmjow thought, something twisting in his chest. It would have been a lie to say he never thought of Ichigo, but he hadn't _really_ thought of him, of all the little nuances that made him so very much himself. To be presented with them here, now, in the form of three teenagers, damn near made him lightheaded.

Not to mention what they were _telling _him.

"Switched," he repeated incredulously. "You _switched places_. What the fucking hell?"

Rukia and the redheaded girl he didn't know traded glances, but Shuuhei—and _damn_, when had he grown up? How the hell did he look like _that_?—stepped slightly in front of them, face set in determined lines. And _damned_ if he didn't look _exactly_ like Ichigo with that stubborn set to his jaw.

"We wanted to see you again," he said resolutely. "Or meet you, in Rangiku's case." He nodded at the redhead, who looked supremely uncomfortable with being brought into the conversation.

Grimmjow didn't blame her. He'd rather not have been having the conversation, either.

Then Shuuhei swallowed, his expression faltering slightly, and Grimmjow could suddenly see the uncertain teenager beneath the unwavering façade. He looked scared that Grimmjow would send them away, kick them out, something, and it absolutely fucking broke Grimmjow's heart, to see this boy who was legally his son so hesitant in front of him.

"Damnit," he growled, and dropped his briefcase to the floor, striding forward and pulling Shuuhei into a hard hug. Shuuhei made a noise that might have been a stifled sob and clutched at his suit jacket with desperate hands. Grimmjow just held him for a moment, then looked up at the two girls, standing there like deer caught in the headlights, and beckoned them closer.

"C'mere," he said gruffly, and a second later was buried by his children's arms.

* * *

They had gotten Ichigo and Grimmjow to agree to a month-long visit before they switched them back, and that was more than any of them had expected. Still, it had gone by far too quickly for Nel's tastes. Even as they left the plane, heading down the ramp into the airport, she clung to Ichigo's arm with both hands. It wasn't just her, either. Starrk was right by Ichigo's other elbow, and even Ulquiorra, who was usually the aloof, mature, indifferent one, was dogging Ichigo's heels far more closely than was necessary.

Nel thought she was going to cry as they stepped into the terminal. One month and it was _over_.

Ichigo had shot down every suggestion of getting back together, even _meeting_ Grimmjow again. Only an incredible amount of pouting—on Nel's part—and quietly dignified pleading—from both Starrk and Ulquiorra—had gotten him to accompany then this far. And Nel might have kind of sort of possibly lied when she told him that Grimmjow had wanted to see him and had asked him to come. Then again, John Lyly had had it right when he said, "The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war."

Doubly so here, because this was both.

Well, a war against stupidity, at least, and in the name of love.

With that in mind, she beamed up at her father, tossed her brothers an encouraging look, and dragged Ichigo towards the ground transportation area. She'd had a long talk with Shuuhei before the flight, and they had both seized on that last, most desperate resort of matchmakers everywhere.

When they reached the house, there was a locked room with Grimmjow and Ichigo's names on it.

* * *

No sooner had Grimmjow opened the door and seen who was knocking (his face had gone blank with shock, as had Ichigo's, but probably for different reasons) than Nel shoved forward shoulder-first and Shuuhei appeared from behind the two adults with a tackle that would have done a linebacker proud, and both men had been sent tumbling through the conveniently open door into the den. Instantly, Nel and Shuuhei lunged to hold it closed and Rukia ducked under them, locking it quickly.

There was a moment of silence as they all stared at each other, the six of them together again for the first time in a month. Then, as one, they turned to stare at the locked door.

"They're going to _murder_ us, aren't they?" Starrk asked bleakly.

Rangiku snorted and crossed her arms. "They have to survive each _other_ first."

That, Shuuhei thought despairingly, was a very good point.

* * *

Grimmjow groaned, one hand rising to feel the goose egg on his skull, the other arm coming up to automatically wrap around Ichigo, who had landed on top of him.

"So," he said conversationally, "how does drowning sound?"

There was a brief pause, and then Ichigo snorted out a short laugh. "For them? Too quick and not painful enough. I'd go with roasting."

Carefully, Grimmjow sat up, not releasing his grip on Ichigo. They ended up sort of sprawled together, Ichigo sitting sideways in his lap, one fine-boned hand cradled against his chest. Grimm frowned at him, reaching for the injury before his brain could kick in and inform him that any more touching was a Bad Idea. "Are you hurt?"

Ichigo rotated the joint slowly, then winced and snorted again. "Just tweaked it a bit. They're _really_ lucky that I finished my final draft last week, though."

"Next in the Infinity Trilogy?" Grimmjow asked thoughtlessly. "Can't wait to read it." Then his brain caught up with his mouth, and he realized Ichigo had gone absolutely still in his grasp. He winced, risking a quick glance up at his ex's face.

And _damn_, but Ichigo was still just as gorgeous as the last time Grimmjow had seen him. Sun-gold skin, hair like a daylily, eyes like a rich mix of chocolate and caramel. The body in his arms was still lean and muscular, not the soft figure expected from a writer, and his gaze was just as sharp as ever as he stared at Grimmjow, eyes narrowed faintly.

"You read my books?" he said after a moment.

Fighting back another wince—because he'd never been able to read Ichigo's voice when it got like that, and his body still reacted to their closeness, and his head was foggy from the scent of plain soap and rosemary shampoo that clung to Ichigo like a second skin—Grimmjow nodded faintly. "Yeah," he said shortly, "all of them." Another tense pause, and he admitted softly, "Saw the disclaimer on the first one after… Well. Couldn't stop, after that."

He remembered, bleakly, seeing the first volume of Ichigo's first series in a bookstore, when he was still a harried junior architect at the new firm, with two toddlers to care for and one rambunctious six-year-old. It had been an impulse purchase, one he hadn't so much as looked at after getting home to find that the sitter was quitting and Nel had put all of her clothes in the dishwasher for the fifth time that week.

Then, nearly a month later, he had been up late, trying to wind down after finishing a project, and had picked it up out of desperation. The dedication, two pages in, had taken his breath away.

_To G.J., the love of my live, wherever he may be. _

Every subsequent book had sported the exact same inscription.

Ichigo took a shuddering breath and then let it out, closing his eyes in what looked like resignation. "I take it that you didn't know I was coming?"

Mutely, Grimmjow shook his head.

With a soft sigh, Ichigo dropped his head to rest on Grimmjow's shoulder, and then chuckled. "This has Shuuhei and Nel written all over it. I changed my mind. Roasting is too good for them. Let's bury them alive."

Also laughing, Grimmjow tightened his arms a little, holding that firm, muscled body close and delighting in the heat and press of it. Because Ichigo wasn't making any attempt to move away, he buried his nose in the smaller man's hair, inhaling the scent of rosemary and freshness that never seemed to fade. "All right," he agreed. "We can make the others dig the graves."

They sat in silence for a long moment, simply holding each other close. Even though neither said anything, they were both remembering the last time that they had been in the same room, and what had happened afterwards.

"Why didn't you come back?" Ichigo asked after a moment, and his voice cracked halfway through.

Grimmjow's heart did that retarded thing again, aching and fluttering all at once. "Why didn't you come after me?"

Slowly, Ichigo drew back, and though his face was a little pale and a little tight, his eyes were dry and fierce. "How was I supposed to know that was what you wanted?" he snapped. "You _walked out_, Grimm. _Nothing._ Not a word, not a message, not a note. You just _left_, and you took Nel and Starrk with you."

Grimmjow blinked, then frowned. "What?" he demanded. "I left you a goddamned note! I left you a whole letter! Right on the front table, where you would see it!" His heart was sinking—more than sinking. It was taking a suicidal plunge towards his toes. If Ichigo had never gotten the letter, if Ichigo had never read the contents, then everything in the past eleven years had all been…

It was all a mistake, and he, with his stupid pride, had only made it worse.

Again, Ichigo went very, very still. Grimmjow dropped his gaze to look at him, and felt a flash of worry at how he had gone even paler, until his tawny eyes looked stark against his skin. "What?" he whispered, and long, slender fingers closed around Grimmjow's biceps with startling strength. Ichigo raised his head and met Grimmjow's eyes. "What—" His voice broke again, but he cleared his throat and finished quickly, as if about to lose his nerve. "What did it say, Grimm?"

The sound of that old nickname, spoken in Ichigo's soft tenor, affected him like nothing else in the last decade. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head forward to rest against Ichigo's and sighed. "That if you wanted me to come back, you had to let me know," he mumbled. "That if you wanted me to stay, you had to come after me. And if you didn't, I was planning to cut all ties and get out before we made ourselves even more miserable, or upset the kids."

Ichigo made a sound that could have been pain or irony or laughter, or any combination of the three, and wrapped his arms around Grimmjow's neck. Grimmjow had a flash of momentary panic, wondering if Ichigo was so upset that he was going to strangle him, but then a pair of firm, warm lips was against his own and all thoughts were gone, burned away by the force of a kiss that they had both been needing for over ten years.

When they separated, Ichigo was smiling, and Grimmjow knew he himself was grinning wide enough to scare small children (not his own, of course, because they had long since grown immune, but definitely others). They rested their foreheads together, simply breathing together, and then Ichigo laughed.

"We're idiots, aren't we?" he asked, still smiling, though there was something sad lurking in the backs of his eyes.

Grimmjow nodded, not lifting his head, and rolled them over so that Ichigo lay beneath him on the thick carpet, and rested his upper body on his forearms. Their lower bodies were pressed together in a way Grimmjow hadn't felt—with anyone—since their last time together. "Yeah," he agreed with a chuckle of his own, even as Ichigo grinned up at him. "Both of us. Don't tell the kids, though. They'll never let it go."

"Monsters," Ichigo said fondly. "I'll keep it a secret if you will." He wrapped his arms around Grimmjow's shoulders and drew him down so that they were completely pressed together, and his smile changed to something sharper and just a little bit mischievous. "So…"

"So?" Grimmjow repeated warily. It was easy to see where Shuuhei had gotten that trickster streak right now.

"So how long has it been for you?" Ichigo asked, arching an eyebrow, even as he canted his hips the exact way to drive Grimmjow crazy with just a few glancing brushes.

Grimmjow bit back a groan and pressed down, catching hold of the redhead's hips and holding him in place as he ground their rapidly filling cocks together. Ichigo gasped at the pressure, throwing his head back, eyes wide, mouth slack. Unable to withstand the temptation presented to him, Grimmjow leaned forward and nipped at his throat, latching onto it and sucking a dark bruise against the tender skin. Breath catching, Ichigo ground back, legs coming up to wrap around Grimmjow's waist as he canted his hips and pulled the bigger man closer, dragging their mouths back together for a kiss that was equal parts sweet and dirty.

But it was too much. Grimmjow tore his mouth away with a groan, rolling off of Ichigo and flopping to the side. His dick ached, wanting nothing more than to pound into the other man until everything vanished in a haze of orgasmic bliss. But he wasn't twenty anymore, and they had more than just themselves to think about. He growled under his breath, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he damned his conscience. But he'd been a father for too long. He couldn't just…put that to the side.

When he moved his hands, Ichigo was leaning up on one elbow, his eyebrow raised. Grimmjow caught the look and groaned again, resisting the urge to retreat behind his hands once more. "Oh, shut up, fucker," he muttered. "This isn't as easy as it used to be."

He jumped slightly when a hand slid down to cup him through his jeans, and hissed as even that light touch made his back arch and his dick harden even more. He shot a glare at Ichigo, who simply rolled his eyes and snorted. "Oh, come on. Like this is hard? You and the kids will come back home, and that's all there is to say. What am I missing?"

Grimmjow's breath caught in his throat, and he closed his eyes. Ichigo made it sound so fucking _simple_. But…what if it was?

"Grimm." Ichigo's voice was soft, and a gentle hand on his arm made him look back at the man he still loved with every fucking bit of his heart. Those nearly golden eyes that had haunted him for a grand total of nearly twenty years were fixed on him, unwavering and full of the exact same fierceness he remembered from before. "Grimm," he repeated, "everything will work out. I swear. With both of us trying to do the same thing, we'll win no matter what. You know that."

He did know that. It had been proven, time after time, when they were living together. Taking a breath, he looked up into Ichigo's blazing eyes and dragged him down for a kiss that stole all of his air and left both of them breathless and panting. Ichigo's fingers were fumbling at his belt, tugging at his zipper, and Grimmjow returned the favor, shoving his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, pushing up their shirts, and wrapping his hand around their freed cocks. Ichigo arched into the touch, groaning, and brought his free hand up to his mouth. As Grimmjow watched, he licked his palm and then each of his fingers, curling his tongue around them in wicked parody of what Grimm _knew_ that tongue could do in other places. He growled softly, and Ichigo shot him a wicked, heated glance, then reached down and replaced Grimmjow's hand with his own.

Grimmjow bucked into the touch, grinding together as Ichigo's slick hand tugged and twisted, finding every hot spot he had and lighting up his nerve endings like a Christmas tree. Already, heat was pooling low in his gut, a churning fire that he couldn't escape, and he claimed Ichigo's mouth again, biting and nipping and devouring. Ichigo gasped back at him, back bowing, his strokes speeding up and losing his former rhythm. It didn't matter to either of them, though, and Grimmjow had only a bare second of warning before he felt the heat reach explosion point, and he spilled over Ichigo's hand and stomach with a groan. Ichigo was half a beat behind him, his cry swallowed as Grimmjow kissed him again, desperate to make this last even a second longer.

* * *

They lay there panting in the aftermath, cooling bodies pressed together, arms around each other. They kissed, constantly and carefully, as though to lose that would be to lose everything. Grimmjow was almost scared of what would happen when the world eventually returned to normal, and they both had to get up, put their clothes to rights, and face the outside world. And, speaking of the outside world…

Grimmjow groaned and buried his face in Ichigo's shoulder. "Fucking hell. Do you think they were listening?"

"Who? The kids?" Ichigo sounded amused. "Mm. I doubt it. Shuuhei has too much self-preservation to do something that would so obviously leave mental scars. And he'd make sure the others didn't listen, either."

With a chuckle, Grimmjow shifted to the side and pulled the smaller man into his arms. "He's a damn impressive kid."

"His is." Ichigo was smiling again, and he wormed closer to Grimmjow, resting his head on Grimm's shoulder. "They all are. It'll be good for them to live together."

Grimmjow thought about protesting, about mentioning all the possible things that could go wrong. But he didn't want to. Here, now, he was happier than he could remember being in _years_. He loved his kids, but he loved Ichigo, too. And now…

Maybe, if they all worked at it together, he could have both.

He snorted and pressed his nose into Ichigo's hair, and smiled.

"We still going to bury them in the backyard?"

"You bet your ass we are."


End file.
